Another book that had me bamboozled until the last few pages, Mr. Golightly’s Holiday by Salley Vickers, is a novel about a nondescript middle-aged writer who takes a “holiday” in a small English village, ostensibly to work on a re-write of a blockbuster he wrote years before. The clues to his real identity are evident early on but I, of course, was clueless. Shan’t give it away suffice to say I didn’t find Mr. Golightly “profound” or “meaningful” (no comparison to superior works by Dani Shapiro, for example) just annoying.
Since I’m not much of an English-novel reader (prefer the Italians, whom I understand), I was frequently flummoxed and too lazy to research the meanings of Vicker’s veddy veddy English expressions. For instance: hob, Marmite, “brakes” of thorn, “drivers often came a cropper,” a “plashy” bog? A tor? Runes? Huh?
Must agree with the Goodreads reviewer who said it was “A bit too twee for my liking.”